


Love Cares Not

by Tender Blade (Dagger_Stiletto)



Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Genderbending, Genderbent Marianne, Kidnapping, M/M, Male!Marianne, Non-consensual Genderbending, Rituals, body image issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-12 01:58:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5649517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dagger_Stiletto/pseuds/Tender%20Blade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bog refuses an alliance with the People of the Lake on the other side of the Dark Forest, and unknown subjects under the Queen's rule kidnap Marianne, performing a black magic ritual to punish the "Lord of Darkness" for snubbing their Queen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I apparently have a thing for damsels in distress, and those pretty purple flowers that are featured in the movie. Then again, purple is my favorite color.  
> I also absolutely love writing male-on-male pairings, and this idea was too appealing not to write. I intend to make this only two or three chapters long, as I still have a Harry Potter fic that I should be finishing up; I keep getting distracted.  
> Un-betaed. Let me know if there are any major grammatical or spelling errors.  
> Please leave kudos or comments if you like it!

_Marianne woke up with a splitting_ headache and an aching back. It took her a moment to take stock of everything, her eyes gritty and irritated as she opened them. It was nighttime. The air had chilled down. She glanced around after mentally confirming that she was still in possession of all of her extremities.

Her heart froze. She was in a cage. Her sward was nowhere to be seen. There was a campfire below where her cage swung from a low-hanging tree branch. She quietly observed the cloaked figures below her as they stood in a circle around what looked like a cauldron hanging over the blazing flames. Now murmuring drifted to her in what she realized was chanting, although she couldn’t tell what they were saying. Her heart began pounding in overdrive.

One of the figures threw something grassy into the cauldron, and gray-green, noxious smoke plumed out of it. Marianne crouched in her cage, hazel eyes wide in terror and heart drumming in her ears as she watched them perform whatever ritual they’d concocted. Whatever it was, they’d decided she was involved, and Marianne knew that could only mean terrible things for her.

You don’t kidnap people and cage them up if all you’re doing is giving them a potion for the Fairy Flu.

After a few seconds, she realized that she was hyperventilating, and she forced herself to calm, even though she wanted so badly to panic. Her eyes darted to the joints of the cage, looking for weaknesses to exploit so she could make her escape.

She didn’t know how long she’d been there, or how she got there, but she didn’t want to fucking _stay._

The sound of drums thrummed through the air suddenly, but there were none that she could see, and she knew it wasn’t her heart suddenly becoming outwardly audible, no matter how loud it sounded in her ears. She wanted to take flight, to beat her wings and bang against her confines like the trapped insect she suddenly related to. Fifty percent of her attention was tacked to keeping her breathing under control; the rest of it had to be focused on escape.

And if she was this terrified, she thanked the powers that be that it was her, and not Dawn, here. She would give her right wing to protect her sister from ever feeling this level of fear and panic.

The drums progressively became louder, and yet the chanting never changed volume, somehow remaining audible over the cacophony. She began praying under her breath, praying to anyone that would listen. She couldn’t find a way out. Her head was splitting with pain, and the loudness making the air throb made the agony intensify. She grabbed the base of the wooden poles making up her prison, digging and clawing and trying to jerk them out of the base of the cage.

The bracelet around her wrist made of the strongest white gold available and several perfect round sapphires tinkled softly, and she wished Bog was there to get  her out of this jam. They were still in the Dark Forest, right? Where were all the eyes he supposedly had everywhere? Why was anyone aware of what was happening to her?

_Please oh please oh please oh please oh please…_

Clawing and tugging weren’t working. She shoved at them instead. No longer worried about being quiet, Marianne rolled to sit on her butt, bracing back on her arms, and she slammed bare feet—they even stole her _boots!—_ against the poles. The cage creaked, jerking and swaying on the rope suspending it.

_Please oh please oh please oh please oh please…_

Two of the poles cracked, and she bit her lip to keep from shouting in triumph. She slammed her feet harder against them, ignoring the jolts of pain shooting up her legs, breaking through them. She switched around again and jerked at the fractured poles, tearing at them until there was enough room for her to wiggle through. Ignoring her racing heart, Marianne started crawling through the hole, escape just there at her fingertips.

She burst through and dropped an inch before her wings caught her. She shot off for the surrounding trees, and she could almost taste freedom—!

Something shot through the air, whistling, seconds before burning, fiery pain lanced up through her leg. She shrieked and looked down. An arrow protruded from both sides of her left ankle, a rope hanging from it; a moment later, a second arrow shot into her right leg, higher up, stuck in the meat of her calf rather than spearing through like the first. She screeched as the figure who’d shot them jerked on the ropes, reeling her in like she was fish on a hook. She resisted, the pain excruciating, trying to get away from these psychos.

Two inches away from the ground, she stopped, wings giving out, and she dropped the distance to the hard ground, landing with a thud. Tears of pain and frustration rolled down her face, and she struggled to stand, to fight back, but the group overpowered her, seven against one, all strong and about the height and physique of her husband-to-be. They had her forcefully subdued, hogtying her with the ropes attached to the arrows still impaling her. Blood streamed sluggishly from the wounds.

“That wasn’t very wise of you, Princess,” one of them said as two walked to the cauldron. They ladled out the liquid within, dumping it into a bowl and making circular motions over the rim before they returned to the rest of the group.

“You don’t even know what you’re messing with,” she snarled through the tears, face contorting with pain and rage. She tried not to pay too much attention to that bowl, but dread curling in her chest, squeezing her lungs, and she knew she was doomed.

“Oh no, Princess, we are very much aware of what we are doing,” the leader of the freaks replied, his tone deadly calm, almost soothing in his demeanor, had it not been for the atmosphere pulsing around the rest of his companions. “You see, this is nothing personal against you. This is punishment for the almighty Bog King, ‘Lord of Darkness.’ He snubbed my people, refused our very generous attempts at making peace and alliances with him. He rejected our Queen’s daughter’s hand in marriage, as well as her son’s, only to turn around and take you as his future Queen.”

“You are a very lovely specimen, Your Majesty,” spoke another kidnapper as Marianne’s stomach churned with bile and anxiety, wings buzzing in apprehension despite the knots pinning them to her back. “We have nothing against the Fairy Kingdom. We have had very little contact with your people, as we are separated from you by the Dark Forest, but our meetings have always been cordial.”

“Had we been able to successfully create an alliance with the Bog King, we may have moved on to doing the same with your realm.”

“Please, you’ll only be signing off on the death of your people if you continue with whatever you’re about to do,” Marianne pleaded. She was grasping at straws, desperate, and they all knew it. Her eyes were wide and showed the whites like the eyes of a wild horse. “Please don’t do this. I’m sure there something we could do to appease your people. Just let me go. I can speak to Bog. I’m sure we can do something. I can make it happen.”

“Oh, Princess, you still don’t understand,” the apparent leader sighed. “It is not you who must take steps to atone. Only the Bog King can, and he must be pushed to action.”

“But surely your Queen—”

“Knows nothing of our efforts,” the second said quickly, more threatening that the first, and she thought he must be the one who shot her.

Behind them a captor dipped the fronds of a fern in the concoction they’d cooked up. Then they stepped forward between the two speakers, one holding the bowl, the other holding the fern. Marianne’s breath hitched, and she struggled as they spread her arms and legs, tacked them down to the ground, no longer hogtied. She wanted to beg for them to stop, but it was obviously they had no value for her life. She still had her pride. She struggled, her nature refusing to just take it lying down; don’t go down without a fight, even when you’re bleeding out and awaiting death.

They surrounded her, and four of them began a chant in the Old Tongue. Her fear spiked, and the invisible drums started up again. The second figure began making gestures, chanting in cadence but in a different language she didn’t recognize. She flinched hard, almost wrenching her arm out of socket, when the one holding the fern flicked some of the liquid on her body.

“ _Change the body, change the mind_ ,” the first spoke, and the liquid began burning the skin it touched. She looked down along her body but didn’t see any actual damage to her flesh.

Another flick covered her in more of the potion, splashing her in the face.

“ _Let the body transform, make her into so much more. Mold the soul, give her a new name._ ”

“No!” Marianne screamed, writhing, her body contorting, twisting, changing. She was on fire, liquid flames splashing across her, the only cold spot on her located where the bracelet against her wrist. “ _You bastards!_ ”

“ _Marianne becomes Marion._ ”

She screamed long and loud, arching her back, blood spurting shortly from the wounds in her legs.

“ _The deed is done_.”

But it wasn’t. The chant continued. It went on and on, and the words and the pain and the emotions all blurred together. Minutes and hours may as well have been days and weeks. Her body was in constant motion, unabating anguish, and eventually she stopped flinching at the flick and splash of the potion upon her skin, clothes and hair soaked and slimy with it.

Bones thickened. Soft flesh flattened. Curves straightened. Muscles tightened and popped and filled out in other areas. Air hurt her. Everything hurt her. She wished everything would stop.

She wished that she would die.

She know how long it all took. It was all blurry and unfocused. The bowl emptied; the fire dimmed. The drums died, and the voices faded. Everything was muted. The forest was quiet. She could only hear her heartbeat, her blood moving through her veins.

They released her from her bonds, and she lay limply in place. Her breathing struggled in and out of her lungs in labored rasps. The leader placed the heel of his palm to her forehead, as if to seal the effects of the ritual through physical contact.

They carefully folded soft leaves around her. Someone removed the arrows in her legs, cleaned the wounds and packed them with herbs. They lifted her up, forming a stretcher with the leaves cradling her, twigs on either side allowing six of them to carry her while the leader guided them.

The tenderness was salt in her wounds. To be brutalized, only to have the violators treat her like fragile spun glass made her want to lurch and scratch out eyes, to find her sword and gut them from the groin up.

But she couldn’t move. Her head lolled limply, fingers twitching, as they carried her through the forest. She didn’t know where they were going. Her vision was hazy, mind sluggish, body still thrumming with the aftereffects of the ritual. The only thing centering her was the bracelet lying cool on her flesh, keeping her from losing her mind.

Time passed, but she would never be able to tell how much. It was still dark. The group of cloaked figures stopped and crouched, gently lowered her into a flowerbed, arranging her so that her position allowed her as much comfort as possible. The group rose and melded into the gloom, except for the leader. He stayed crouched beside for a moment longer.

“May the Gods smile upon you, child,” he murmured softly with a vague gesture. He began to stand.

Marianne’s hand lashed out, using a strength and energy she didn’t know she had, stopping him for an instant. The moon above illuminated part of his face at this angle, and his eyes showed surprise. “ _I’m going to kill you all_ ,” she snarled in a voice she didn’t recognize, and she thought that it wasn’t just because of the homicidal emotion in her tone. She bared her teen in grim satisfaction when she saw the glint of fear in his eyes. “ _You’re all going to die._ ”

Then all her strength fled. Her hand fell, head dropped, eyes rolled back in her skull, and she succumbed to oblivion.

~*~~*~*~*~~*~

 _The wings, the brown hair, the_ height, and the hazel eyes were the only things that remained the same. Marianne had flown through the sky yesterday. Now Marion crawled brokenly through the flower bed and weeds to the stream that ran nearby to discover his fate. Tears slipped soundlessly down his face. He was still beautiful, face still mostly feminine, but the cheekbones were different, jaw just a little wider and firmer, nose not as soft, eyebrows thicker.

He was still small in stature, slim, but his curves were gone. Marianne hadn’t been voluptuous or overly curvy, but she’d had a lovely shape, and now he was all straight, pants drooping with the sudden lack of hips, blouse loose without breasts to fill it in. The shape of his wings was a little off but mostly the same. His ass seemed to have filled out, strangely enough, but the rest of him was skinny.

He had an Adam’s apple. It was small, barely noticeable, but it was _there._

What would happen to him now? How would her family react? The Kingdom? Would they even accept him as whom he said he was? How could he face them now?

How could he face _Bog?_

A shattered wail of agony broke from him. He gripped his wrist and pressed the cherished bracelet to his forehead, curling in on himself and rocking himself. Why did something always have to set his world aflame as soon as something good happened to him? What had he ever done to deserve this? Bog was the love of Marianne’s—Marion’s—life, and he couldn’t imagine a world without him. What was he going to do?

He felt a drop of slime from last night’s ordeal drip from his hair, and he shouted and rage, gripping his head in manic anger. He threw himself into the stream, ignoring the cold, and scrubbed at himself like a person obsessed.

He scrubbed until his wounds opened, his arms scratched and bruised, but the potion was gone, washed away with the stream, the last bit of the blueberry makeup that might have managed to survive swirling along with it. He crawled onto the bank naked, still feeling dirty and violated. He hadn’t been able to unbind his wings from the netting the ropes had been tied into, and he figured it was just as well; he didn’t want to fly anyway. He sobbed, curled in a ball and hidden from view by the leaves of the flowers he loved so much; the purple ones Bog brought to him every time he came to visit in the Fairy Kingdom. He plucked a few of the petals and leaves and used blades of grass to bind them together in makeshift pants and shirt. The clothes he’d had yesterday didn’t fit and were ruined anyway.

Dressed, Marion just lay on the grass for a while, wishing he could become one with the earth, or that it would open up and swallow him. He hoped that an animal happened across him and ate him. Weakness weighed his limbs down, muscles aching from the transformation they’d been forced into, and the wounds on his legs throbbing insistently. He couldn’t even convince his wings to move. Hazel eyes closed. Rest wouldn’t come.

The sun was warm as it shined down on his little spot. The wind rustled softly. The birds above sang, and creatures rummaged through their daily routines. The Dark Forest was blissfully unaware of what transpired, and he was sure how he was supposed to feel about it. He wanted to be numb. If he just faded away from existence, maybe everything would be alright. He could just pass slowly into oblivion, forming more and more into dust with every exhale.

Of course, the universe did everything in its power to make sure he was uncomfortable. Sometime in the afternoon, footsteps approached, odd in its gait, and he knew it had to be Goblin. He remained still, eyes closed, barely breathing, willing the earth to open up and claim him, or for something to fall on him and squish him into nothingness.

The Goblin stopped close to his head. It held a stick and gently prodded his back, as if to wake him. Then it touched his legs, and he flinched, curling into a ball with a whine at the pain radiating anew. Marion’s eyes opened, but he kept his gaze averted, trying to escape again as he brokenly belly-crawled.

“No no, strange Fairy,” the gruff voice of a Goblin he didn’t recognize said. He grabbed the netting pinning his wings down. “You must come to the palace to see our Healers. King Alistair will not be happy if we leave one of his subjects to rot in the forest.” With that, the large Goblin tossed him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carried him in the direction he’d come.

Marion hung limp, resigned to his fate.


	2. Chapter 2

_Bog walked among the crops of_ belladonna he had growing not far from the new castle he’d had to commission a few months ago after it became clear the original was unsalvageable. Some Goblins trailed behind him; one carried a basket of the berries, the other a satchel for the blossoms. The King pointed at the best blooms and ripest berries to be harvested.

He paused when he saw Gnash lumbering out of the shrubbery several feet away. He had been sent out to collect fresh moss for new mattresses, and he usually spent the majority of the day to retrieve it. Bog scowled when he saw the bag he had to carry the moss mostly empty, eyes latching onto the pale, bare legs of a Fairy draped over his shoulder.

A Fairy with violet wings.

His heart twanged, startled, and the Goblin King abandoned his task immediately. He flew over, making Gnash falter momentarily. The large Goblin halted and laid his burden on the ground as gently as his brusque nature and figure allowed.

Bog did a double take when he got a good look of the Fairy. It was male, but his wings didn’t have the customary moth-like markings of all the other male Fairies. Brown hair hid most of his face, but from what Bog could actually see, he looked so much like Marianne… It was uncanny, and it confused the hell out of him. Bog set foot on the ground again, wings twitching.

The boy was lethargic in his movements, as if everything hurt him. His breathing was off, even. Wounds on his legs that looked like they’d been there for hours had reopened and bled sluggishly, the flesh around the one on his calf appearing red and aggravated while the whole ankle and foot on the other leg was swollen and flushed. The boy sat up, looking around in a daze, and when he saw Bog—even though he didn’t look above the waist—he snapped his arms around his head, hiding his face with eyes clenched shut, wings straining against their bonds.

“I found him beside the stream,” Gnash reported, nudging the Fairy gently with his walking stick.

“Do you recognize him?” Bog queried, still trying to get a better look at him.

“Nae, my Lord.”

Bog grunted, stepping closer and using the end of his staff to tap under the Fairy’s chin, lifting the boy’s head from his arms. The stranger growled, pushing weakly at the amber head. “What is yer name, Fairy?” he demanded.

The boy clamped his lips closed stubbornly, still trying to hide his face despite the King’s insistence on seeing him. The more he watched, and the more he managed to observe of his features, the more Bog was sure he knew the Fairy. He was certain he’d remember a male Fairy with such unique wings, though. Surely he wouldn’t have forgotten something so uncommon. It was a habit of his to be attracted by strangeness, abnormalities, deviations from the norm.

He tried to get closer for a better look, and the Fairy tried to shrink away, stopped only by the fact that he’d backed up against Gnash’s thick legs. Bog got the distinct impression that he wasn’t afraid of the Goblin King, as was common in Fairies still unfamiliar with their Princess’ fiancé and consort. He snarled when the boy lashed out with one of his injured legs, panicking, and he grabbed the offending limb, although he managed not to grab the wounds themselves. All the same, the Fairy yelped in pain and struggled to get loose.

“Tha’s quite enough, lad,” the King growled, struggling not to let his temper flare. “Yer in mah lands, and it would behoove ye to behave yerself.” He firmly pushed the lad’s leg down to the ground again. He stood, deciding to give up on the interrogation for now. He had better things to do, after all. “Take him inside and have Mother contact the Healer. Those wounds are beyond even her expertise.”

Gnash nodded and stooped to pick up the Fairy, who hissed a bit like a cat and struggled despite his apparent fatigue. He was awfully feisty. Bog inwardly smirked, thinking of his own feisty Fairy. He would have to pay her a visit soon. What with their respective Harvest Seasons well under way, they could afford to take a break and spend some time together. It had been a good two weeks since the last time.

Shaking himself from his thoughts before he could get too distracted—Marianne was a glorious and frequent distraction—Bog turned back to the belladonna shrubs.

~*~

Griselda was quick to send a message on a dragonfly to fetch a Healer once she saw the extent of Marion’s condition. She insisted on forcing a proper bath with actual sop on him, pouring specialized juices on the wounds on his legs to disinfect them as well as she could.

“My goodness, dear, you look like you’ve been through hell and back,” she said as she combed filth from his hair, letting him soak in the warm water for a bit before she took a soapy cloth to his extremities. “Don’t you worry, dear, we’ll get you back to looking like a proper Fairy in no time.” Her eyes held a knowledge, a sadness, that scared him, but whatever she presumed to know, she didn’t mention.

Marion did his best not to struggle against the smaller Goblin. He hadn’t been bathed by someone else since before his mother’s death, and it was awkward and embarrassing. It coupled with the feelings of shame and the need to hide away from the world swirling darkly in his belly.

If Marianne had been stronger, if she’d been quicker, if she’d fought a little harder when she’d been jumped by those cloaked assailants, maybe Marion—the little tiny part of Marianne that made her prefer sparring to singing, hard work and adventure to luxury and complacency—would have stayed in her subconscious, content with his little part in her life.

Now it was a complete reversal; the soft, feminine side of her that had been in the forefront was in the background. What had always been “conventionally masculine” was in the spotlight, and Marion was shy, wanted quiet and to be left alone since he’d been in the dark for so long. They’d like it that way. Marianne’s identity had been a somewhat rebellious, outspoken female who indulged in things society usually reserved for those of the male persuasion.

The spell, the ritual, had flip-flopped them. Marion had never been meant to be on the frontlines. Even if he had somehow taken over the female personality, the body should have remained female. Now he was male in both mind and body. It was wrong. It should never have happened.

When Griselda brushed a soapy cloth over Marion’s netherparts, the nearly-catatonic Fairy burst into a flurry of movement, screaming and thrashing and trying to escape despite the ropes still binding his wings. His wounds began bleeding again, pinkening the water. Griselda tried to restrain the panicking, violent Fairy, calling for Brutus, who burst in and grasped Marion’s arms bruisingly.

Marion shrieked and kicked out wildly, striking Griselda’s hands. His head thrashed, wings writhing and chafing in their bindings. He whipped around and sank his teeth into Brutus’ arm, making the large Goblin roar and shake the Fairy angrily until the teeth were dislodged.

“Okay! Okay, okay,” Griselda shouted piercingly. “Okay, sweetums, we won’t touch there. It’s all right.” She patted Marion’s arm, then rubbed between his wings until he calmed, breathing ragged but steady, heart no longer fluttering in panic. The matron Goblin smiled kindly and lifted Marion’s left arm.

When nothing happened for a tick, Marion realized with dread what had happened. Both Brutus and Griselda stared at the distinctive bracelet around his wrist. He tugged out of her grip, but Brutus held him fast and lifted him out of the tub. Griselda briskly dried him off with linens and helped him dress in borrowed trousers and tunic.

Marion didn’t know what to do. They were silent and didn’t mention the bracelet all while the Healer worked on the wounds on his legs. The one in the calf was easy enough to heal, but the one through his ankle would need several sessions before it was back to normal since the arrow had gone through bone, not just flesh and muscle.

“It will most likely scar because of this,” the Healer added. “Residual pain during the winters and bad weather is a possibility, but you are young enough that you may not feel those pains until well into your adulthood.” He was an ancient thing, with knobby knees and bent fingers, but the magic he still held was almost a tangible aura around him, and it calmed Marion’s nerves for the time that he was in the older man’s presence. He looked similar to whatever breed Bog King was, but mixed with Water Fae.

Marion nodded and regretted seeing him leave. He cringed when Griselda asked the Healer to find Bog and have him come to the kitchens.

Griselda held Marion’s hand firmly, Brutus following, as she guided him to the kitchens. “I don’t know who you are, deary, but I have my suspicions,” she said softly as she firmly pushed him into a chair. “You’ll have to answer some questions, and answer honestly. Whatever it is, we can deal with it, and everything will be all right. I guarantee it. I know you’re scared. With whatever happened to you, I don’t blame you. It’s clearly written on your pretty little face that it was a terrible thing. Just don’t make it worse by lying to us.”

Marion swallowed hard, nervous. He played with the bracelet on his wrist, watching as she warmed some acorn mash and served it in a bowl. He hesitantly ate, flinching when she brandished a knife a little too close to him. He prepared to flee, even though intellectually he knew Griselda would never hurt anyone and that he wouldn’t get very far. He remained tense as she carefully cut the ropes on his wings. She cooed sympathetically at the rope burns marking his torso and wings. She sent Thang for a salve.

Marion finished the acorn mash, which set heavily in his stomach with all the nerves jangling around inside him. He had just gotten finished having salve applied to his rope burns by the time Bog King arrived, intimidating and apprehensive.

“You called for me, Mother?” he asked, the grip on his staff tight as his gaze swept over her for injury, and then over Marion, who ducked his head reflexively. He caught a glint of confused recognition in his expressive blue eyes.

“Yes, Bog. I believe there has been some dirty magic at play.” Griselda patted Marion’s arm and stretched it out to show Bog the bracelet resting peacefully there. Her grip was iron, and Marion’s attempts to pull out of it proved futile—he’d drained most of his energy and strength in his last freak out.

Bog saw it immediately and snarled, grabbing his wrist from Griselda in a harsh grip he’d never used on Marianne, and Marion couldn’t help but feel wounded, just barely biting back a whimper and a wail of despair. “Where…did you get tha’ bracelet?” he snarled dangerously.

“It’s mine,” he wailed, tugging at his arm as the tears he’d been fighting since he came here finally slid down his face. “It’s mine.”

“I gave tha’ to someone, had it specially gart fer ’er, and there is nae other like it. Now where did you get it?” His face was close, so close, and Marion’s heart fluttered like a hummingbird’s wings. “And I would think twice about haverin’ t’ me, wee Fairy.”

“ ‘Gart’ means he had it made from her, and ‘haverin’’ means lying, lambkin,” Griselda murmured, patting Marion’s other hand, confusing him with her gentleness while facing Bog’s terrifying anger.

Marianne would never have quaked in front of him.

Marion was weak, unfit for Boy’s side.

Bog’s eyes snapped to Griselda in an instant. “Mother, what are you doing?”

“I’m comforting him, darling,” she said matter-of-factly. She carefully pried her son’s fingers from around the Fairy’s wrist, and he let go, stunned by his mother’s behavior. “Calm down, Bog. There is more to this than what we see, and scaring the daylights out of the poor thing won’t do anyone any good.”

Marion cradled his wrist to his chest, covering the bruised area and the bracelet protectively as his eyes switch back and forth anxiously, confused.

“Oh Mother, not another of yer _intuitions_ ,” Bog hissed, looking thoroughly exasperated. “You are rarely correct about them, and this is not something to be taken lightly.”

“Was I right in saying that the love between you and Marianne was strong?” Griselda demanded haughtily, tossing her short, straw-like red hair.

“That is not the same—”

“ _Was I right?_ ”

There was a very brief silence, like a breath, in which Marion held his own. Bog’s shoulders slumped from their tense, defensive position. “Of course. Marianne is everything to me.”

Marion’s heart leapt into his throat, eyes wide as he stared at Bog, wings shifting involuntarily.

“And I was right in saying that you would love her no matter what? No matter what she did or said or even what she looked like?” Griselda pressed, and Marion got the distinct feeling that she may be doing this for his benefit. Or he could be imagining things.

“Aye. Ah’d love ’er e’en if she didnae love me anymore,” Bog replied, with more feeling than Marianne/Marion even remembered hearing from him. “She is most precious t’ me, an’ all Ah want is ’er happiness.” His accent thickened with his emotions, and Marion wanted to kiss him, wanted to hear more of that beautiful brogue, even if it wasn’t in the form of endearments and declarations of love.

“Then take a deep breath and calm yourself,” Griselda ordered, and her eyes flicked to Marion, who had stood but doesn’t remember doing so. “Both of you.”

Before anything more could be said, there was tinkling and a rush of cool air. Marion backed closer away in momentary fright at the speed with which something zoomed into the kitchens. The others turned and watched expectantly as the Sugar Plum Fairy took form from the ball of light she’d entered as, and she whirled her way over to Bog with a delightful laugh. “Bog King!” she trilled with her large eyes batting playfully. “Long time no see!”

“Not long enough,” he grumbled, leaning away from her. She was always too close for his comfort.

“Tut tut, Boggy, I know you missed me! Besides, I have important information for you that would take too long to send via mushroom message, especially if it’s Thang delivering the news.” She fluttered around him, ignoring Thang’s indignant squawk. “A dark ritual took place last night on the edge of the forest, close to the border between your lands and the People of the Lake. I came across the sight this morning while looking for snake skins. It’s very worrisome. Nasty stuff, this magic is. I investigated the site before I came so I didn’t waste either of our precious time. It permanently turns the victim—”

She gasped, cutting herself off when she finally caught sight of Marion. His heart thudded painfully, and he tried to scramble away from her gaze. The horror in her eyes said it all—she knew who he used to be, and her expression cemented the knowledge he’d suspected and tried to ignore. But he’d known, deep down.

He would never be Marianne again. He was forever stuck in this body, in this head, and he couldn’t ever return to what he’d always been.

Plum fluttered over to him, circling him in a flurry of concerned movement that made him flinch. Sorrow for him was clearly etched into her face. “Oh, Princess. Look what they’ve done to you…” She cupped the side of his face, and he broke. He slid to the floor, clutching at her as he fought not to howl with despair.

~*~

Bog’s heart twinged when he saw the young Fairy crumble, like a marionette with its strings cut. A trembling mess, sobbing like the world was ending. It was hard not to be effected by such soul-wrenching misery. Dread began to creep through him. Whatever happened to him, it happened in _Bog’s forest._

And…did Plum just call him “Princess?”

“Plum. What’s going on?” he asked quietly, fingers convulsively clenching around his staff.

“I am so glad I’m the one that found the ritual site,” Plum remarked. “The nature of these types of rituals is that the victim, if living once finished, cannot speak of what transpired. If you asked him what happened, his breath would cut off until you changed the subject.” She stroked her hand through the suddenly quiet Fairy, who had exhausted himself rather quickly. His eyes were closed, leaning into the comforting touch, and he trembled.

Griselda scooped his hand up and rubbed it gently. “What was the ritual designed to do?” she asked, and the grimness in her voice proved that her usually faulty intuition had been correct this time. Her fingers touch on the bracelet.

“It changes the victim into the opposite of what they were,” the sorceress replied quietly. “There is a spell and potion combination that changes the body into the opposite gender. It is neutral and reversible method used when someone feels that they don’t fit the skin they were born in. There is a dark spell that enemies use to reverse an opponent’s mind and personality. It, too, is reversible. However, when they are combined and put in a ritual setting, it is permanent. Nothing can erase it or its effects.”

It was like death toll ringing in the room. The finality of it was depressing, but faced with the victim, who looked like he would rather wither and die than face it all… It was horrifying. Bog grabbed a chair and carefully lowered himself to sit, eyes wide and staring.

He looked at the Fairy, truly looking for the first time since he’d been carried in. Plum’s hand smoothed the brown hair out of the way, revealing his face fully. Bog’s heart froze, and he knew who it was. It had practically had to be spelled out for him, and even now his mind was stubbornly trying to reject the information, but there really was no denying it.

The Fairy looked like Marianne’s brother. One she never had.

He dropped to his knees, uncaring of the unseemly position. Gently, eyes trained on him, he scooped both Fairy hands into his own. There was the scar on his thumb that Marianne said she received handling her sword for the first time. Hazel eyes, red-rimmed from crying, flashed to him, tired and haunted. He could see the person he loved in there, but it was so different, like Marianne was there but buried, forced back.

But she was there, and the boy in the forefront was part of her, and that was what mattered. She wasn’t _gone_.

“What your name, love?” Sugar Plum asked, tilting her head so she could make eye contact.

“Marion,” the boy croaked. He swallowed, then coughed. “They knew who I was and named me Marion.”


End file.
